


The Voice in the Radio

by IHearttheHitachiinTwins



Series: Yandere Angel Dust [1]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Cannibalism, Character Death, Demons, Human Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Kinda, M/M, Magic, Murder, Obsessive Behavior, Period Typical Bigotry, Self-Harm, Trans Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Trans Male Character, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, Yandere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:48:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26592421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IHearttheHitachiinTwins/pseuds/IHearttheHitachiinTwins
Summary: When Angel, a bored and trapped housewife, hears radio host Alastor Landry for the first time, his life is changed forever.
Relationships: Alastor & Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)
Series: Yandere Angel Dust [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1935844
Comments: 6
Kudos: 47





	The Voice in the Radio

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [housewife radio](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26551027) by [boa_bec](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boa_bec/pseuds/boa_bec). 



> Trying something new!~ This might come across as kinda shippy, and you're welcome to see it that way. Personally I don't see it as romantic, but to each their own my dears!

A great many things in Angel’s life had simply been out of his control.

He clutched to the illusion of control, the few thin threads he had. He smoked his cigarettes on the back porch, and sought out harder stuff when it came his way. He wore what he liked to wear and was confident in his knowledge of his body and gender. He knew himself, if not what he wanted to do  _ with _ that self, and sometimes that illusion even placated his aching chest for a few moments.

But he knew that for the most part, he was destined to watch his life change hands without ever having a say in the matter.

The family he was born to, for instance. There had been no input on his part who had dragged him into this world, screaming alongside his sister. Identical twins, said the doctor even though that was wrong too. He’d had no control over who his quiet big brother would be, how he would marry his job, and love it more than either of his siblings. He had no control over who his mother was, or the fact that his family’s less than legal activities would snatch her away before Angel and his sister were even speaking full sentences. 

He also had no control over the actions of his father.

A father who didn’t understand him. Who cared more for “The Family” than  _ his _ family, even when that left Angel and Molly alone to burn their own poorly cooked dinners as he took Archie out to learn how to dispose of a body. A father who reacted to Angel’s instances that his body was wrong with stern indifference and instructions to get his act together and stop playing pretend. A father who kept him bundled out of sight and out of mind as his siblings learned to follow in their father’s footsteps. A father who dismissed him as useless in the face of Archie’s steady trigger finger and Molly’s natural knack for numbers. 

Angel had no control over his marriage. It happened when he was barely eighteen, pulled out of schooling and placed in front of a well off young man Angel recognised as the son of a high class associate of his father’s. Angel found the man boring at best, and at worst so distant when they were in a room together, Angel felt he would have been less lonely if the room were empty after all.

“He’s just trying to protect you.” Molly’d said on the wedding day, although without much conviction. Hands softly grasping his. “Away from all of this. It doesn’t agree with you, we all know it… He just wants what’s best.”

Angel had scoffed and mentioned something to the effect of the dowery surely having nothing to do with it. Molly had pursed her lips and squeezed his hand a little tighter. 

~~~

Angel was told in no uncertain terms that his husband’s job was incredibly important and he would need to return to work as soon as possible, so they would waste no time in returning to his home state. So, the very next day, Angel, with a case of his limited possessions, was herded onto a train bound for Louisiana, where his new husband lived full time.

His husband had a house in the good part of town, a two storey affair with both a basement  _ and _ attic. There was an antique grandfather clock at the end of the hall and portraits in the landing. Polished wooden tables and good crystal for when there were guests. A set of french doors leading to a patio, and even a gazebo in the garden surrounded by white roses with a pink blush. The man even had, in a flagrant display of wealth,  _ five  _ radios. Two upstairs in the master and guest bedrooms, and three down. One in the parlor, and one apiece in the dining room and study. Each gleaming like new and standing proudly to give each room a lightened ambiance.

The house was, to put it to a point, beautiful. 

Angel had never felt so out of place.

On his tour of the house he was shown such highlights as the laundry room and the ironing board and the kitchen and the sitting room. An armful’s worth of clothing that wanted mending was already waiting in the wardrobe and he was informed his new husband returned home at six thirty each day and he expected food on the table upon his return.

Angel had the skills to be a housewife, of course. What else would his father insist on his less useful daughter learning other than the art of pleasing a man? The first day passed, then the second, then the third. A week, a month, a year, the days bled into each other and slid by like a cold, grey monotone. Half melted snow sludge running through his whole body and leaving him both restless and numb.

He did his chores with due diligence, but it was painful. Angel felt like his head was being compressed. He clenched the needle as he sewed, fingers white with tension. His role of the submissive housewife felt like shackles to this beautiful house. Like a lifelong prison sentence. Longing for a freedom beyond his reach. That always had been out of his reach.

And so his life continued, ever out of his control.

~~~

Everything changed the day Angel turned on the radio. 

The silence had been suffocating, even though his husband had been gone less than an hour. He didn’t claim his husband to be flawless, or even his preferred company, but it was  _ something _ . Better than this big, empty house. His silent, gilded cage. So he made his way to that gleaming radio in the dining room and turned it on so that he could hear the jazz emanating from it from the laundry room. While it wasn’t human voices, wasn’t the soft murmuring of his siblings or the creaking floorboards under tens of people coming and going at all hours, it filled the empty air. Although it did nothing to fill the lonely chasam in his chest.

The final notes of the song faded into the soft static and the grandfather clock down the hall chimed nine.

_ “A fine morning to you all, ladies and gentlemen. Your local radio host, Alastor Landry, signing on for the morning news and weather.”  _

A show started at nine, evidently.

Angel was so caught off guard by the sound of another person that he dropped the shirt he was folding. The voice in the radio felt like it had pierced him through the chest, for all the impact it had had. A crack in his endless nothing to let light stream in.

Angel stumbled towards the voice, more running on instinct than conscious thought. He just knew he needed to get closer to that voice. He left the laundry half done and approached the radio in fervor. 

_ “The skies are clear and bright once again, which I’m sure will be a stark relief to everyone after the thunders of yesterday. I know you’re all hard at work, dear listeners, but I do hope you get the chance to get outside and feel the sun on your faces today.” _

Angel didn’t need to feel the sun on his face. He would bet that it didn’t compare to the warmth this Alastor’s voice had spread through his veins. 

Angel spent the rest of the day by that radio. He left the laundry for another day and stayed. He was captivated. Sewing every article he could, and cleaning the parlor thrice over to excuse staying close. Alastor’s quick wit and dry humour had him smiling, even through a particularly tedious tear in a silk shirt. Alastor never seemed to be short on words, and responded with such personality to each announcement and story. During a section where he read letters mailed in to the station, he accented the letters with charming commentary and cheery remarks.

He would remark on the music selection, speaking about the technical aspects of the music with knowledge and confidence. Angel wondered if he played any instruments. He wondered if Alastor could sing. If that charismatic voice could croon as well as it could chatter.

When the show finally ended, he realised he had barely an hour before his husband returned and rushed to prepare dinner. His husband took in the spotless parlor and pile of mended shirts with a raised eyebrow, but otherwise said nothing of it.

Angel betted Alastor would have said something. Probably some clever comment on cleanliness before a compliment on Angel’s thoroughness. Like how he spectated the letters he read.

Angel knew it was unfair to compare his husband to another man, but his husband was so distant, so quiet and cold, where Alastor’s show had filled him with such warm closeness. He couldn’t help but crave that again, to fill the chasm in his chest once again draining.

~~~

Things changed.

With Alastor on the air, things went from near intolerable to near euphoric. Alastor’s show was nine-to-six, Monday til’ Friday, so it was perfect. The monotonous hours of cooking, cleaning, and sewing passed in a dreamlike haze with that charming voice following him throughout the house. When his husband left in the morning, Angel would turn on all five of those radios that had become his gateway to salvation. That way, no matter where in the house his chores led him, Alastor’s voice was there. A warm presence, an embrace, that balmed Angel from any and all loneliness that threatened to creep in. It was as if when Alastor was there, Angel couldn’t be sad, or angry, or confused. The universe slotted perfectly, like a jigsaw puzzle completed, and everything was calm and right.

It felt as if Alastor was there with him, in the room, in that empty house. That they were connected somehow. Something more than just a listening ear and a radio host. He knew, logically, that he and Alastor had never met, that Alastor had no idea he existed. But stil, that sense of connection persisted past what was logical and rooted itself firmly in the list of things that Angel simply  _ knew _ to be true.

After a while, Angel started dressing up for Alastor, even though he knew the host couldn’t see him. He picked out skirts and dresses he hoped might have caught the man’s eye. Alastor had mentioned in one segment that his favorite colour was red, and Angel had started adorning himself with red and black jewelry, to try and keep some piece of Alastor close. Rubies bought with his husband’s money like drops of blood on his skin; Alastor had a dark sense of humour, would he like that image? Blood on porcelain pale?

He smiled as he placed the jewels on his throat and twirled in the mirror. He hoped Alastor would find him beautiful. How strange that he dressed so carefully only when his husband was gone. That he went about doing his chores in his sunday best, to contribute to this connection that he knew to be so tragically one sided. 

The hours where his husband was gone went from the worst hours of the day to the best of them by far. The space his husband could barely fill almost seemed too small for Alastor, who was larger than life, even through a speaker. Even though he tried not to, he couldn't help but wish his husband could be more like his beloved radio host. Loving him would be so easy then. Though they were strangers, Angel could feel Alastor there with him. Permeating him. He remembered hearing Alastor’s voice for the first time and likening it to a red-hot spear through his heart. The spearhead had lodged there, it seemed, and given Alastor pride of place in Angel’s soul. 

As it was, there was no room for his husband in Angels’ heart. 

Not when Alastor took up so much room.

Was it an obsession? Perhaps. Probably. 

Thoughts of Alastor intruded on all moments, even the weekends when Alastor was gone. He spoke back to the radio. Answered Alastor’s rhetorical questions sincerely. Wanting desperately to respond, to connect back, even though that meant he was in truth speaking to no one. He dreamed of a figure behind a microphone in a studio, wondering what the man behind that voice looked like. He thought of ways to impress him, ways to honour the person who made his prison into a castle. 

Alastor was control. Alastor was freedom. 

Angel finally found the one thing in his life that was  _ his _ . 

~~~

_ “And with that, I’m afraid, the clock chimes six. Our time together has come to a close and I must leave you once again, my dearest listeners. But never fear, I will return to you all on Monday morning. May your weekend be a safe one, with such fearsome people lurking the streets. This is your host, Alastor Landry, signing off for the night. Goodnight my dears.” _

“Goodnight Al.”

~~~

Alastor did not return on Monday morning.

When Angel turned on the radio at nine am on Monday morning, there was a new voice coming from the radio. It was deeper, less animated.

Not Alastor at all.

There had been a hunting accident, they said. He’d been mistaken for a deer. He’d been shot. Between the eyes. Died on impact.

Nothing anyone could do.

He turned the thing off. The house went silent.

Angel spent the rest of that day underneath the radio. Sprawled out like a lifeless doll, unable to move for the grief and pain lancing through him. He exhausted all his tears in the first four hours. He did nothing except weep under the radio. The ironing went undone and there was no dinner on the table when his husband returned.

When he asked what was wrong, why Angel was tear-sodden and lying against the dresser in their bedroom wearing his best jewels, he simply shook his head. Angel buried his face in his hands, and sobbed harder. His husband had no idea what to do with him. He was escorted to the couch. Handed a handkerchief. 

He was empty.

He didn’t want his husband. 

He wanted Alastor.

~~~

He wished he could say that things went back to the dull grey they had been before, but they did not. After all, it’s more painful to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. Something in Angel had died that day under the radio. Died with Alastor. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He’d known the thing, the obsession, had been set up to end in heartbreak. Centralizing his life for a stranger from afar, how could it not? And yet that didn’t soothe him.

It felt as if Angel had shattered from within. Like he’d been under strain his whole life, and with this one impact, had brilliantly exploded into a million pieces with nobody who cared enough to pick them up. Doing the chores seemed impossible, not without Alastor’s voice. The radios went unused and a layer of dust gathered on them. 

Days may have passed, they may not have. Angel didn’t remember. Sleeping and wakefulness lost meaning.

Everything lost meaning.

His husband told him to chin up at first, then to pull himself together. That simpering over whatever this was for weeks was ridiculous and unhealthy. Even more time passed and his husband started asking if he was sick. If he needed to get a doctor. Angel didn’t know what he needed.

Well. He did. But he wouldn’t get it.

Another meaningless day began and Angel was yet to leave bed. He knew he should at least make an attempt to get up, lest his husband make good on his want to call a doctor, but he just couldn’t. Not without Alastor’s voice. How could he go on without it-

His train of thought was broken when static started emanating from somewhere.

Wha-

There was a radio in this room usually, but when it became apparent that Angel wouldn’t be able to sleep with it there, his husband unplugged it and put it in the closet.

Angel looked around for something that could be making the sounds, but found nothing. There wasn’t even an electrical outlet other than the one that the radio had once been attached to. That one sat empty.

Angel slowly got out of the bed and to his feet. The static was muffled, as if covered by a blanket or in another room. He frowned. Where was it….

He followed it to the closet.

A strange certainty settled in his stomach, cold and heavy. He opened the door and searched for the radio. 

There it sat, on the shelf above the coats, a sheet over it to protect it from dust. The static was distinctly coming from there. He hesitated only a moment before uncovering it. He hadn’t seen it since that day he had grieved all day under it. It had seemed… deader then. Without Alastor’s voice. But now something about it seemed… More alive. He felt a strange blooming in his chest. Like a little warm flame had begun to kindle there. 

It felt like Alastor.

The static continued to pour from it and suddenly Angel frowned. How was this possible? The radio wasn’t even plugged in. He reached out to touch it, brush his hand over the top of it, check that it was  _ real _ . (Would he even be able to tell if it wasn’t? It looked real. Sounded real. Would touch be any different?). The wood was smooth and glossy. When he touched it the static hiccuped a little and there was a spike of microphone feedback before it went silent.

The tiny flame in Angel’s chest was doused in cold water and tears came to his eyes. He clutched the radio close again. 

Somewhere in the house, the clock chimed six.

~~~

The next day, the static came again. Nine on the dot, this time. The closet once again started spewing static. This time Angel knew what to look for. He made his way over to the closet and uncovered the radio. He stared at it, running a hand gently along the rim of it, and his heart ached.

Once again, the warmth in Angel’s chest returned. It was weaker than the days where Alastor lived, but it was undoubtedly the same sensation. Alastor was there, trapped in the static. Behind the radio, like he always had been.

Angel had no idea how he knew this, he just felt it, with a sure certainty he couldn’t really justify. As he ran his hands over it, again and again, the static almost seemed to clear up some. Not like it was getting quieter, but almost like there was some semblance of order to it. Like it was trying to form words.

Angel got closer, pressing his ear closer. Trying to sort through the noise.

Hear the voice in the static.

He knew it was there. He could feel it.

Maybe he just needed to get closer.

~~~

Four days listening to the static. Nine to six, Monday to Friday. Alastor’s hours.

The trapped voice, Alastor’s voice, he was certain, grew stronger. He’d had doubts at first, but now he was sure he could hear it. Closer and closer to being legible each day until…

_ He…..llo….. Is…...nyone there….? ...easting, testing…. _

Through the static it came. Weak, distant, and full of interference, but there. That voice he had missed. The one he had lost.

Alastor.

“Alastor? Is that you?”

He whispered. He didn’t get an answer. The voice kept asking though.

_ Please…. I’m so….hungry… So hungry… _

He sounded so distraught. It made Angel’s heart break. He had never heardAlastor’s voice thick with pain before. He gripped the edge of the radio tighter.

“How can I help?”

But Alastor couldn’t hear him. Of course he couldn’t. That’s not how radios worked.

His helplessness led Angel to clutch the sides of the radio so hard his knuckles went white. He was shaking. He wanted to help so badly but there was nothing,  _ nothing, _ he could do… 

He suddenly hissed in pain and pulled his hand away.

There was a single splinter in his finger.

He pulled it out and a bead of blood welled up. As it did the static rose to a roar.

_ Yes…. That…. Hungry….  _ **_Please…._ **

Angel looked down at his finger, the drop of blood, before looking back at the radio. How….

A red mist leaked from the speakers, winding towards his finger. It picked up the blood and carried it, suspended, back into the radio. The static seemed to calm a little. A few disjointed fragments of songs slipping in there, before the voice returned. Stronger than before.

_ Yes… Yes. Thank you. _

Angel looked down at his finger again, the splinter already scabbing over, and stroked the radio softly. He’d done it! He’d helped Alastor! Alastor had spoken to him,  _ thanked _ him. He leaned closer to the radio and the small flame in his chest burst into a protective, raging inferno. 

_ More… please… more. _

Angel knew that he shouldn’t bleed himself dry. If he did, who would help Alastor next time? But for now, he could spare a little. 

He hurried to get his needles.

~~~

“I just don’t understand it, one day she’s fine, the next she’s a useless, sobbing wreck. Three weeks of that and suddenly she’s fine again? Even doing the chores. She unplugged all the radios in the house, and started cooking more meat, but otherwise? I don’t know what to think...”

Angel heard his husband on the phone, but paid him no mind. He was busy setting mouse and rat traps. That first day had not been a fluke, and now Alastor returned to the radio five days a week. Monday to Friday, Angel would give Alastor a few drops of his blood to give him strength to move about the house, from radio to radio. Talking at him about anything that came to his mind. Keeping him company through his chores.

It was like having his show again. A show just for him. 

Alastor still couldn’t hear him, but that was okay. Alastor knew he was there now. Knew him, had tasted him. He called Angel his ‘Darling Morsel’. It made Angel’s stomach flutter. He would so adore to be consumed by Alastor. To be a morsel for him in every way. But then who would feed him the next day? 

No. Alastor needed him. His fantasies of being consumed by Alastor would have to wait, for now he had a very important job to do. For although Alastor called his blood delicious, he grew hungrier and hungrier the more he was fed. Soon the few drops Angel could spare weren’t enough. 

Hence the rat traps.

His husband had noticed his behaviour. Strange, given how distant he was. How little he cared. He was no Alastor. He wasn’t close enough to see in front of his nose! But still, he noticed. Angel didn’t care. His husband would do nothing, because that was the kind of man he was.

Nothing.

Not like Alastor, who was everything.

Angel’s everything.

~~~

Cats started to go missing in their neighborhood, then dogs. Chickens from backyard coops. A farm from the city’s edge even lost a cow. And when Mr. Jenkins disappeared? Well, the frail old man’s patio was right next to the bayou, the gators probably got him.

With every meal, every day, Angel felt Alastor grow in power. His pride at being there, at being the person Alastor couldn’t go without, was addictive. 

Sometimes he faltered. Wondered if it was real. How could it be real? Sometimes he even  _ hoped _ it wasn’t real… But at the same time how could it not be? If it wasn’t where were the bodies going? Where was his blood going? How did the radio speak with Alastor’s voice so beautifully? He could trust his own senses. Couldn’t he? Could he? It felt like walking a razor’s edge, cutting his feet, but better than the fall below. 

These were the times he needed Alastor the most. Alastor made the world so beautifully clear, getting lost in that voice made these doubts go away. He dug the sewing needle lightly into his finger and let the red mists curl around them like a caress, lapping the blood up.

_ Ah, my Darling Morsel, you wake me so kindly. _

Angel smiled proudly at Alastor’s praise, the tension of his doubts melting away.

_ I’m sure it must be ever so bothersome to you, ever so painful to help me so. How kind you must be. I do wish you and I could meet. Perhaps one day…  _

Angel pressed his forehead to the radio, imagining pressing it against Alastor’s chest instead. He wanted that too.

_ In the meantime, I can provide you only with my company. I presume that is agreeable to you, considering you continue to aid me. Or perhaps you are simply a kind soul. Either way, I would like to return what I can. _

Angel wished he could tell Alastor that it was his pleasure. That he would do this every day for the rest of his life. That he would bleed himself dry if he thought Alastor didn’t need him for other things, he would happily let Alastor devour him. If he had to bleed for Alastor to feel him, then he would bleed enough to fill an ocean and then some.

~~~

“For God’s sake this is ridiculous, they aren’t even plugged in!”

“No! You can’t take them!”

Angel stood between his husband and the radio, tears burning his eyes. They wanted to take the radios away. They wanted to take  _ Alastor _ away. He wouldn’t allow it. Couldn’t allow it.

“Be sensible. Mister Appleton’s offered a fantastic price for them, we can buy you a present with the money. How does that sound?”

He shook his head and wailed and screamed and pushed his husband away from the table holding the precious machine.

“I won’t let you! You can’t! I need them!”

“What’s gotten into you?” He grabbed Angel by the wrists and tried to stop him struggling. “Please talk to me.”

Angel’s mind was whirling.

“I- They… I can’t.. Let you take them. Stay home from work tomorrow. At nine o’clock, you’ll see.”

“This is ridiculous-”

“Please! You’ll see. I promise.”

“Fine.”

~~~

“What in the blazes are you doing, stop that!”

“It don’t hurt much, just watch!”

Angel ignored his husband’s attempts to tend to his bleeding hand as drops were fed to the radio.

_ Good morning, my Morsel. _

“There, do you see now?”

His husband was just looking at him. 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

_ Have you brought me another meal? I can sense it… _

“Can’t you hear him?”

“Hear what?”

_ My Darling. My dear. So good to me… _

Angel’s heart hurt. It felt like it was full to bursting, and yet hollow with fear.

His husband’s confusion, his anger… Alastor’s praise, his addictive being.

It was an impossible choice, yet hardly a choice at all. Alastor had cradled him and caressed him and saved him and imprisoned him. He was too far gone, there was no backing out now.

He belonged to the voice in the radio.

He held his husband tightly by the hair while his other hand held his wrists, and he forced the man’s face towards the speakers. The red mist leaked out and curled around his husband, the offering. Stroking up Angel’s arms like a caress.

_ Oh my Darling Morsel. My precious Angel. You truly are too good for this world. _

Angel fed his husband to the radio.

~~~

Alastor didn’t leave on the weekends anymore.

Alastor never left these days.

He would chatter to Angel as they whiled away the hours together. Alstor could talk for hours and hours on end without stopping and Angel was happy to listen. He talked about radio waves and cooking. He talked about butchering and how fast a man can run. Angel learned more about Alastor than anyone had ever known. About the bodies in the basement and the leftover parts he fed to the gators. About the people he stalked after hours and what exactly he did with those weekends he was away. Angel lapped it all up. He knew Alastor better than anyone, alive or dead. Alastor told him about his mother, who was sweet, and his father who was not.

_ I think you and my mother would have gotten on swimmingly my dear. I wish you could have tasted her cooking. _

Sometimes Alastor would even sing to him, when he ran out of words for a brief moment. He had a lovely voice, accented with radio crackle. Angel often fell asleep listening to him. He wondered if Alastor could sense him singing along.

He brought Alastor anything he wanted. Anything he asked. He was happy to. Alastor praised him. Alastor appreciated him. More than his husband ever did, and Alastor had never heard a word he’d said. Animals, humans, and a significant portion of Angel’s own flesh and blood went to Alastor’s appetite. It hurt in the moment, but Alastor’s gratitude made it worth it. Worth everything and anything he could give.

He gave himself over, body, mind, and soul to Alastor.

He stayed next to the radio all day and night, only parting to fetch Alastor his meals. 

Addicted and a willing servant to the voice in the radio. 


End file.
